Zero-G (12 page)

Despite the reassuring voice in his head, one undeniable fact stoked the coals of his regret: he wouldn't be a “flying” astronaut, and flying defined him.

Sure. He could train incoming astronauts, oversee one NASA project or another; he could continue to speak at schools, colleges, and civic groups; he could make the rounds to the contractors who assembled parts of space-going vessels. He could do that and still be one of the most admired men in the country.

Maybe saying good-bye to NASA was the thing to do. Return to active Navy duty. He shook his head. Myra couldn't handle that. Having him gone six months at sea would be unfair to a family that had already endured so much.

Minutes became hours and with little recognition of how he got there, Tuck was home.

The house sat empty. No sounds of children, no radio, no television, no smells of cooking, no laughter, no sibling arguing. His mind had been so full of self-pity that he had forgotten that the kids would be in school and Myra would be working at her part-time real estate career.

Tuck's home was twenty-five-hundred feet of clean, organized, self-decorated bliss. Now, it seemed a well-furnished tomb. He decided tomb was the right metaphor. After all, something had died — his career. He knew the time would come when space travel would no longer be available to him, but he always assumed it would be because he had grown tired of it. One didn't fly the Shuttle every week, or even every month. The time between flights could span more than a year, but just knowing that his name was on the list for upcoming missions satisfied him. He would never feel that satisfaction again.

He slipped into the kitchen and removed a small bottle of orange juice, twisted the lid off, took a draw, then moved back into the living room. A suede sofa became his perch. Leaning forward, Tuck rested his elbows on his knees and peered into the half-empty juice bottle as if the answer were floating somewhere within.

Thoughts that normally fell into line like soldiers in a parade resisted any attempt at organization. Instead of soldiers at attention, his thoughts swirled aimlessly.

Life wasn't over. He knew that. He just didn't
feel
it.

His gaze rose and fixed on a long open box in front of the cherrywood entertainment center. The box rested empty on the charcoal gray carpet. Next to it rested the long narrow contents: the skateboard he and Myra had bought Gary for his birthday. The sight of it brought a small smile to Tuck's face.

The thought of Gary stimulated another memory. His son had been stunned when he discovered his father had met Ted Roos and didn't know enough to ask for an autograph.

Ted Roos. He had given Tuck a business card. What had he done with it?

More from instinct than memory, Tuck set the juice on the coffee table and reached for his wallet. There it was, tucked just behind a twenty. He studied it. The card was simple translucent plastic with black ink, nothing indicating great creativity or marketing savvy: just the name Ted Roos, a phone number, an e-mail address, and a webpage URL. Straight and to the point. Tuck thought it odd that there was no physical or mailing address. Oversight or plan?

It didn't matter. Tuck reached for the remote phone that rested on a side table and dialed the number.

One ring.

“Roos.” The voice sounded distracted. Tuck could hear the soft
click-click-click
of fingers putting a keyboard through its paces.

“You answer your own phone?”

“You taking a survey? Who is this?”

“Benjamin Tucker. We met in San Diego — ”

“Yes, Commander. Of course, I remember. It's great to hear from you.”

“I'm sorry to bother you at work . . . you really answer your own phone?”

“For an astronaut you sure are old school. We don't have a company phone number. Every employee gets a cell phone. We have one number that goes to an answering ser vice — a computer really. We give that number to salesmen.”

“I see. So the number you gave me rings on your hip.”

“Night and day, Commander. Night and day.”

“I have a favor to ask. If it's not something you do, just tell me.”

“Ask away.”

“I have a twelve-year-old son. Actually, he just turned twelve yesterday.”

“Congrats.” Keyboard noise continued to flow across the line.

“The point is: I told him I met you and he thought I'd lost my mind because I didn't ask for an autograph.”

“Ah, he must be an avid video-game player.”

“Isn't every boy his age?”

“I hope so. I have a huge mortgage and guys his age keep it paid for me. So you want an autograph.”

“If it's not too much trouble.” Tuck felt awkward.

“No trouble for me, but it might be for you.”

“How's that?”

The keyboard clicking stopped. “Here's what I'll do. Not only will I give your boy . . . what's his name?”

“Gary.”

“Not only will I give Gary an autograph, I'll give him an advance copy of
Tower Terror
.”

“I can't say I've heard of it.”

Roos laughed. “I'd bet good money there are a lot of video games you haven't heard of. This one doesn't hit the stores for three months. Gary will be the only one in Texas and one of the few in the world to have it.”

“You don't have to do that, Mr. Roos.”

“It's Ted. I know I don't have to, but it's the boy's birthday. That's what makes it a gift, Commander. If I had to give it to him, then it would be an obligation.”

“There's a hitch to this, isn't there?”

“Yup. You have to come to California to get it. Bring your boy.”

“You want me to fly to California to pick up an autograph and a video game?”

“Nope. I want you to fly to California because I want to show you what I'm doing. The autograph and game are unabashed bribery.”

“At least you're upfront about it.”

“That's me. I'm transparent as glass. I'll even send the corporate jet to pick you up.” The
click-clack
returned. “How about tomorrow morning?”

“I'd have to take him out of school for the day.”

“Sweet. He'll love it. My dad used to take me out of school to go fishing with him. The school hated it but he didn't care. Come to think of it, neither did I. How about it? Think NASA will unhook the leash for you?”

“That won't be a problem.”

Verducci stepped from his hotel room looking refreshed and showing no signs of travel fatigue. The fact that he was now in a country on the other side of the planet rather than where he had been the day before apparently had not fazed him. He wore white slacks and an eye-blurring geometric print shirt. He looked every bit the wealthy tourist.

Ganzi also wore casual clothing: a dark aloha shirt, crisp new jeans, and New Balance sport shoes. Somehow, Ganzi felt underdressed. Perhaps it was the height difference; perhaps it was the fact that Verducci looked like a Roman statue come to life; maybe it was the air of quiet danger that surrounded his client. He couldn't shake the idea that being next to this man was akin to sitting on a volcano overdue for eruption.

“How was your nap?” Ganzi asked. He had been waiting outside the door. Verducci told him to be ready at 5:35, of all things.

“I rested well.”

“And the room is to your liking?”

“It will do.”

Ganzi nodded. “Then to dinner. We will talk there.”

The elevator from the sixth floor released them at the lobby adjacent to the atrium. The place buzzed with activity. The hotel hosted a complimentary manager's reception, and men and women dressed in their best business garb washed away the stress of the day with sips of wine and swallows of beer.

“If the place is too crowded for you, we can go to another place or order room ser vice.”

“This will be fine. I've had my fill of airplanes and cars. There's an empty table in the corner.” Verducci led the way. Minutes later they each had a drink in front of them and had ordered meals.

“Let me see it.” Verducci held out a hand.

Ganzi handed a leather folder to his client. “If you don't mind me saying so, I expected a thicker accent.”

“Much of my schooling was done in the US. I not only learned your language but your manner of speaking. I've found it useful.”

Tempted as he was, Ganzi didn't ask what that meant. He doubted he wanted to know. Instead, he rested his arms on the table and fingered the glass of Samuel Adams in front of him. He assumed Verducci would have gone for a red wine or similar. Instead, a wide glass of Chivas Regal scotch rested by the open folder.

“You've double-checked this?”

Ganzi nodded. “Every place, every distance.”

“It doesn't show the whole city.”

“Of course not. Houston is the largest city in Texas. Shoot. It's the largest city in the south, fourth largest in the country. I gave you what I thought was pertinent to your project, what little I know of it.”

“I'll decide what is pertinent.” He didn't bother looking up. “This will be fine. I see you've listed the hospitals, fire stations, police stations and . . .” He flipped through the pages. “I don't see the locations for FBI offices. Why?”

Ganzi had been expecting this. He took time to knock back a third of his beer before answering. He was stalling and didn't care if Verducci knew it. The next words would be hard.

“Look. I appreciate the work and the more-than-generous fee. I don't mind tracking someone down. PIs do it all the time. I don't mind gathering information on a person. That's half my business income. But when someone starts asking for the locations and photos of government buildings, I get a little touchy.”

“You think I'm a terrorist?”

“Mr. Verducci, everyone is suspected of being a terrorist. We live in a frightened society now. We doubt everyone and everything.”

“Mr. Ganzi, I assure you, I'm no terrorist. Last time I looked, my country and yours were on the same side.”

“Then why request this information? Why do you want to know about the Houston police substations, hospital locations, and the like?”

“You will see, Mr. Ganzi.”

The waiter brought the food. Steak and potatoes for Ganzi; red snapper for Verducci. When the plate was set before him, Verducci ordered a glass of red wine. The server left.

“Aren't you supposed to drink white wine with fish?”Ganzi didn't care, but he thought the question might lighten the moment.

“Not where I come from.” Verducci finished the scotch and pushed the glass aside. They fell silent waiting for the waiter to return with the wine. The moment they had the table to themselves Verducci pressed his fork into the fish and asked, “Are you licensed to carry a weapon?”

“This is Texas. My dog is licensed to carry a weapon.”

“Good. If you ever see me do anything that makes you think I'm going to blow up a building, shoot me in the head.”

“I would, you know.”

“That's why I hired you.”

ELEVEN

I
can't believe Mom let you do this. I have to be bleeding from the eyes for her to let me stay home sick.”

“Where do you get phrases like that? Bleeding from the eyes? You're a sick puppy.”

“I am my father's son.”

Tuck looked at Gary, who sat opposite him in the Cessna Citation business jet. When the boy spoke, he barely looked up from the handheld video game he had been wearing out since they took to the air. “Your mother taught you to say that, didn't she?”

“I'll never tell.”

Tuck smiled. His boy did sound like him and each month
looked
more like his old man. Twelve wasn't old, but he seemed to be maturing fast — maybe too fast. If pride were alcohol, Tuck would be forever inebriated.

“So flying in expensive business jets is old hat for you, eh?”

“No way. I ain't never seen one . . . I mean, I've
never
even seen one before. This is way cool. Off the hook.”

“Yet you play a video game instead of spending quality time with your pops.”

“It's called multitasking, Dad.”

“It's also called rude.”

Gary turned the game off. “Sorry. I forgot you don't like video games.”

“I didn't say that. I've played plenty of video games. My generation invented them.”

“Pong doesn't count. Neither does Donkey Kong.”

“Oh, is that a fact. Now you're a game snob. How about flight simulators? Big, honkin' projection screens, real aircraft controls.”

Gary faked a yawn.

“Oh, that's how it is, is it?” Tuck undid his seatbelt. “I bet I can still tickle you until you beg for mercy.”

“I'll cry child abuse.” His grin lit up the dark part of Tuck's mind.

“Once the judge meets you, he'll give me a medal.” He rose from his seat.

“Okay, okay. You win.” Their laughter filled the passenger cabin. The cabin could seat six more, but Tuck and Gary had the place to themselves.